The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons (8 page)

“But what do we
do?
”

She sat back, thoughtful.

“First, I intend to have a few words with the captain. He must know that he exercised poor, though well-intentioned, judgment in helping to keep your secret. Secondly, he must know our concerns about Quaide. Third, we must have a family meeting—everyone must be vigilant, cautious. And,” she added pointedly, “forthcoming in all things.”

“I'm sorry, Marni,” I began.

She silenced me with a gentle raised hand. “We understand each other, that's what's important.”

She stood, and seemed taller to me than usual. She flashed a smile. “There is good news in all of this! It seems the magic that transformed this ship is once again your ally! Come along with me to the helm,” she said. “You can take over the wheel for a bit, while the captain and I have a little talk.”

A
t the helm—the knobs of the ship's wheel secure in my fisted hands, the wind in my hair—it was relatively easy to put aside my worries, at least for the moment. Grady hollered out directions (perhaps from the chart Quaide had retrieved?): “Sou' by sou'east. . . . Keep 'er close t' the wind!” This I was able to do almost on instinct. That we were far from rocky coastlines, and there were no other ships in sight, no doubt lent to my air of confidence—we were, by all estimations, about a week from the Azore Islands. Georgie eyed me jealously from his bell platform, sounding the next half-hour mark. “No fair!” he muttered, clanging the bell with unnecessary vigor, the rest of his complaint lost to the crash of the waves.

It wasn't long before Marni and Captain Adams strolled back, side by side, their heads inclined. I glanced their way and then out to sea, suddenly uncomfortable, anxious to have the awkward exchange that was sure to take place over with.

“You make a good helmswoman, Miss Lucy,” he said with a smile. “Must be in your blood!” I stepped aside, avoiding his eyes, and he took back the wheel. “It's always good to have the air cleared, wouldn't you agree? A squall, while challenging, usually yields blue skies in its wake.” I could detect nothing in his tone but affection.

“Yes, Cap'n,” I said. Like Marni, the cap'n had a knack for moving through difficult places with ease and grace. What more could we want when we hit the inevitable storms at sea?

The cap'n went on, not at all defensively. “And to allay any concerns about my judgment, you deserve to know that I did alert the authorities in regard to that miserable character who attempted to abduct you. As a father myself . . .” He paused, as though he had misspoken. “Well . . . suffice it to say I am always concerned for the welfare of children.”

“You have children?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.

A shadow crossed the cap'n's face. “I did.”

Marni gently touched my arm, a cue for me not to press. The subtle gesture didn't escape the cap'n's eye. “It's all right, Miss Marni.” He turned to me. “I had a daughter, Imogene. A feisty little sprig of a girl.” His eyes filled with a flash of delight at the mention of her. And then they changed. “Influenza,” he said, quietly, “took her from me, and her mother as well.”

My heart wrenched, understanding what it meant to lose those you care about the most. At least for me there was Aunt Pru. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Cap'n!”

“Yes, of course you are. Thank you, Miss Lucy. Now, what do you say we get back to the business of sailing this ship?”

I met his eyes, and, in light of all of this, wondered if Marni had shared our concerns about Quaide. As if my worry had conjured him up, the hulking figure appeared. He moved toward Georgie, who sat on his platform, arms crossed, chin resting on his knees, his envy toward me at the helm evidenced by his curled, petulant lower lip and creased brow. Quaide squatted beside him, nudged Georgie with his elbow, and gestured toward the foremast.

“Cap'n,” Quaide called. “Might we out the stun's'l? Show the kid what kinda speed she got?”

Cap'n nodded good-naturedly. “Out studding sails!” he shouted. Quaide poked Georgie with a thick finger. “Wanna be a sailor, don'tcha? Come on. Stick with me. Ya can help me run out the booms.” Georgie scrambled up and followed him. If he'd had a tail, like Pugsley, he'd be wagging it.

“Good for the little one to learn,” said the cap'n. “Nice to see Quaide take him under wing.”

“We'll see,” Marni said quietly. She and I exchanged a glance that told me she hadn't yet brought Quaide and his questionable motives to the captain's attention. With a nod to the cap'n, and a hand on my shoulder, she led me away. “No better time than now for a family meeting,” she said. “Go round up Walter and Addie. In the stateroom.” She went her way and I mine, a sense of urgency suddenly propelling us both.

Once gathered, Marni waved Rasjohnny in, a tray of coffee and sweet biscuits in his hands. “Der ya go, missus,” he said, and was gone, closing the door snugly behind him. The four of us sat around the parlor table, stirring and sipping. It felt very grown-up to be part of this. Until I thought about what had to be said. How they would all hear about the attempted kidnapping. KID-napping, I thought miserably. I glanced over my cup at Walter, who was dunking his biscuit. He lifted the java-saturated treat, tipped his head, and opened his mouth just as the biscuit-turned-to-mush plopped in his lap. I laughed and, for a moment, felt better.

Just then Addie reached out and patted my hand. “I've been missin' ya, Lucy, I 'ave,” she said. “Used to be we spent more time t'gether. Now, all of a sudden, you're off on yer own, doin' what needs doin,' as though you been doin' it all yer life! The cap'n'd be proud.” She blushed. “I meant yer father, of course, Cap'n Simmons!”

I bit my lip. She'd feel differently when she heard what had almost happened. Marni jumped in. “We don't have much time, what with all our respective responsibilities, so let me get right to it.”

I took a deep breath.

“Quaide,” she said. “There is reason to believe we shouldn't trust him. Lucy saw him involved in a dubious transaction involving some riff-raff onshore. Money changed hands.” She looked from Walter to Addie, both listening with rapt attention. “This alone might not suggest anything other than the dealings of a rough-and-tumble seaman. But there's more. Lucy, tell them what you saw in the chart room.”

I swallowed, felt all eyes on me. “He didn't see me—I was in the passageway and the door to the chart room opened of its own accord—silently. Of course, I looked inside. Quaide was in there, trying to open the safe.”

“I've seen the safe,” Walter said. “Was going to ask about it.”

“It was Father's safe, and it's locked. Besides money or valuables, it could hold clues to Aunt Pru's whereabouts. I don't know the combination. But I feel I can figure it out. I have to!”

Marni nodded. “Yes. It's important, I believe, to discover what secrets or treasures the safe might hold. Quaide, I'm sure, is more interested in monetary gain.”

“I didn't trust him from the start,” Walter said. “It's just that he looked like he could carry his weight. And he is a good sailor.”

Addie leaned forward, wagging her finger. “Has a bit o' crudeness to 'im, he does.”

“A
bit?
” Walter said, and I stifled a laugh.

Addie gathered herself up and looked at Walter defensively. “I was bein' polite.”

“Crude, he is,” Marni continued, “but crude is not the real problem. Trustworthiness is the issue. All I'm saying is, be watchful. For such a large fellow he has the ability to be stealthy. Keep him in your sights. Mind his movements. And if you see anything that concerns you—even a little—share it. Between the four of us . . . are we agreed?”

We offered our unanimous assent, stood, and prepared to leave. Addie reached out for me. “We'll need t' attend to daily lessons,” she said. “Book learnin' is important fer ye, along with Annie and Master Georgie.”

I snapped, “I'm not a child!” Marni raised an eyebrow, and I instantly regretted my tone. Addie looked stricken. Walter tried, unsuccessfully, not to gloat.

“But yes, Addie,” I amended, softening my voice. “I'd love to read with you. And Annie and Georgie.”

“'Twould do ye all good!” Addie said, a trace of resentment in her voice. “'Twouldn't hurt ye, Walter, neither!”

“No it wouldn't,” I agreed. “Let's include him!”

“All right then,” Marni said, rising from her chair, gathering the tray of coffee. “Let's get on with it!” As she led the way out of the stateroom, followed by Addie, Walter took my arm and pulled me back.

He whispered, “You said the door opened of its own accord.” His dark eyes shone. “The magic—I was thinking that maybe we'd left it back in Maine. Do you think . . . ?”

“Yes,” I said. “And that's not all. When I spied Quaide onshore with Father's spyglass . . . it moved, as though guided by an iron hand, until it focused on what I needed to see. . . .”

“I could have guessed,” he said. “Because when I was on watch, I saw something out there on the sea . . .”

We inched closer together. “Yes—a ship? On the horizon . . .”

“Almost flying above the waves,” he said, finishing my sentence, “following at a distance.” I could feel his breath on my face. “It was as though it was . . . I don't know . . . stalking us. . . .”

“And the glittering cloud,” I continued, the words tumbling. “I wasn't sure—I thought it might have just been a rainbow in the mist, but—”

“Yes! Yes—it surrounded the vessel!”

I placed my hand on his forearm. “When I was up at the top of the mast . . .” I was about to tell him of Father's voice instructing me when I dangled from the royal yard. He leaned closer. We were nearly nose to nose. My heart raced. “What?” he asked, his eyes alive with excitement, and something else.

But Father's words, I realized, I wanted to keep for myself. That, and the discomfort I felt boasting of Father, strong and benevolent even in death, compared to the brute of a man who called Walter his son.

“What else?” he persisted.

I backed away. Removed my hand from his arm. “Nothing,” I said.

“No, there's more—I can see it in your eyes.”

I shook my head. Looked down. Felt him pull away. In a moment everything had changed.

The bell sounded. “Time for my watch,” he mumbled.

“Walter,” I called after him. “Walter!”

But he was already gone.

I
t had been thirteen days a-sail, with no land in sight. I found myself always looking to the east, in anticipation of our first landmark, but the Azore Islands were still days, maybe even a week, away. I wandered below, into the stateroom, the familiarity engulfing me in a sense of the past. There, Mother's needlepoint pillow, here, Father's oak rocker. I sat in the ornate chair and pushed back with my feet. It creaked in the accustomed manner, lulling me in rhythm with the gentle swaying of the ship. I closed my eyes and could almost believe I was back home in Maine, that any moment Father would enter, our copy of
Treasure Island
in hand for our next installment. Roaming the room, my gaze settled on a small wooden chest in the corner that I hadn't noticed before. The ship creaked as it pitched, sending the chest sliding across the varnished floor, stopping inches from my feet. It was as though the vessel had offered me a gift. “Thank you,” I whispered, staring at the wooden box. The letters
ES
were stenciled on the front in black—Father's initials! Was it his ditty box from long-ago days at sea?

I went to the chest, knelt before it, and ran my hand over the rough, dark green–painted surface. A dull brass latch on the front may have once held a lock but now hung unencumbered. The hinged lid squeaked as I slowly lifted it open.

I removed the contents, one item at a time. Expecting it to be filled with the practicalities of a seaman, I was surprised to discover several pieces of ivory—whalebone or, perhaps, walrus tusk, decorated with designs and scenes of the sea. Tucked alongside was a small suede sack holding a number of crude sailing needles and pointed etching tools—a scrimshaw set for carving and decorating whalebone! Next, I pulled out a leather satchel folded in thirds. I untied the rawhide cord and opened it to find a collection of knives, chisels, and gouging tools perfect for carving. Then, a pen-and-ink set—miniature bottles of black, indigo, and red inks, and a graceful quill with a variety of nibs.

A sound outside made me jump. “What are you doing, Lucy?”

Annie stood in the doorway. Ida butted past her, trotted over, and began nibbling the suede sack I'd set on the floor. “Ida! Bad nanny!” Annie cried, running in. “Ooh!” she said, stopping short, forgetting all about Ida. “What's that?” She pointed into the chest, and pulled out an octagon-shaped frame with the beginnings of a mosaic of delicate pastel seashells inside.

“A sailor's valentine,” I mused, wondering if Father had begun crafting it for my mother during lonely nights at sea.

“And this?” Annie marveled, her blue eyes open wide. In one hand she held a rectangular wooden box with an inlaid design of mother-of-pearl. “A jewelry box!” she exclaimed, holding it out in front of her. “Or . . . or . . . a pirate treasure!” A dark thought crossed my mind. It didn't look like a jewelry box, and was certainly too small to be a treasure chest—it looked like . . . a miniature coffin. I pushed the thought from my mind. “Open it,” I said.

The two of us, heads together, strained for a peek. “What in the world?” I mumbled. The box held a deck of playing cards, stacked in two piles. I took one and held it up. The back of the card had been decorated in an incredibly intricate design of scrolls and swirls, a web of fine curlicue lines that surrounded a tiny figure of a seaman here, a whale there. It had been done by hand, I was sure.